Dreammaker
by Norisumi
Summary: One day, Fuji descended down to the Earth, and landed next to Tezuka. He was pleased when Tezuka stopped playing his tennis to watch him.


**Disclaimer:** If I owned Prince of Tennis, I would give it to Aeris for her birthday, but since I don't, she gets this crappy fic. Great trade-off, no?

**Pairing:** Tezuka x Fuji  
**Timeline:** AU

Interconnected drabbles featuring the growing relationship between Fuji and Tezuka. Vagueness ensues. I've always wanted to write a fic where Fuji had wings. So now, Fuji has wings. At first, it started off fluffy, but it ended up rather angsty. First time writing something PoT, but I'd love some pointers and comments. This one-shot follows the anime timeline loosely, but I've changed a few things around, so please take things at a face value. Thank you, ffnet for screwing up the layout. We love you.

**Written For**: Orangekittyalchemist-Sony.**_ Happy birthday, Aeris-sama. _**

**Warnings: **Shonen-ai, incoherent ramblings and Major-character death. You have been warned.

* * *

**Dreammaker**

_"...Will make me sleep again: and then, in dreaming,  
The clouds methought would open and show riches  
Ready to drop upon me that, when I waked,  
I cried to dream again. "_

_- - Caliban (The Tempest, Shakespeare)_

* * *

When Fuji was younger, he learned about his wings from Yumiko.

"Wings are very useful things," she'd tell him as she brushed back the dirty gray feathers with a comb, fingers gently kneading oil between the feathers with care, "But they can only take you so far."

He'd look out the window with a wistful look, his eyes flashing, blue, blue as the sky. "My wings can take me anywhere I want."

"Don't get attached to them," She'd warn, bushing back the last few feathers, before setting the comb down on the table, and giving his hair a ruffle, "Or it'll hurt when you lose them,"

"Then I won't," he'd answer with a smile, patting her hands gently, before he'd stretch his wings, eyes flashing in delight as he caught the wind. And he'd give her one last look of pure unadulterated joy, before he'd take off into the sky, gray feathers flickering in the air where he once stood.

And she'd watch as his form disappeared into the blue, blue sky, blue as his eyes, blue as the dreams she dreamt of him falling, falling from that great blue expanse into darkness.

_They can only take you so far._

* * *

Flight was a pleasant sensation. The dizzying rise and fall of his flight path gave him a sense of freedom unlike anything else, and if he flew up high enough, he felt as though he could go anywhere in the world. The world was his oyster, and the gray feathers, which floated off lazily from his widespread wings marked his passing like a trail of silver starlight.

And he'd leave those gray feathers to the humans below as he savored the sky, _his sky_, above, and let them dream of flight while he lived it.

Sometimes, once in a while, when the weather was just right and the thermals just high enough, and the moon bright, he'd fly to the top of the world, and sit there, and he'd see everything, everything below him in a dizzying spiral of objects and things and more things and things which he cared for and things which he didn't, the latter overtaking the former by a mile. And he'd simply watch, watch as the world went round and round and people getting up and people falling down and people being affected by the thing called gravity and he would laugh when he realized that he wasn't spinning.

It was on one of those rare, rare days which he sat on the top of the world, that he could think that the world was his, and only his, that his world was complete and beautiful and he could forget about that strange ache in his heart which never seemed to go away, and he'd smile and smile, feel warm and loved, and was satisfied that his world was truly perfect, that he looked up to the stars.

And then, he realized, _'I want those.'_

That night, he dreamt of stars, of falling and of rising and of spinning round and round like the earth, spinning like his favorite star up so high, the one that spun around and around and never got dizzy, the one that made its own path of rotation and changed it every few years, just to keep things interesting. And he'd wake up, and look down, and then up again, and smile and Yumiko would brush his wings, and he'd brush hers, before he took off into the sky.

* * *

One day, he watched a star fall from the sky. There was a streak of light, and sudden, it was falling, and falling, and falling, leaving a trail of dust and light and more dust, parts of itself landing on other stars and sprinkling the moon's surface with star dust, and it fell and fell and it fell and fell, until he couldn't see it anymore, not from the top of the earth, and not even when he flew down to make sure.

He had laughed, because it seemed like such a natural thing to do.

* * *

Stars were brightest when they were falling. When they died, they gave off the most light, bright flashes, as though trying to light up the world, as though trying to arouse one last time the beauty that they inspired in life, before they were gone from existence. As the eleventh star fell from the sky that night, and as Fuji trailed its path of descent, fingers smoothing out his feathers absently, he opened his eyes.

They landed on something brighter than a star.

* * *

If the star that had just fallen was the eleventh star, Fuji mused, then he had just found the twelfth. The twelfth star in the twelfth year of its life. _His star_. And it was burning so brightly, brighter than a dying star, brighter than all of the dying stars put together. And he sensed that there was enough light there to be able to light up the whole universe if it chose.

And he wanted to see how much brighter it could be when it fell.

* * *

His star never smiled. That was the first thing he noticed as he stood on a cloud, watching. His star was rigid. His star did not spin, did not fall, but moved fluidly, and pounded a green ball against an uneven wall as though it would kill him to stop. Brown eyes and brown hair and pale skin, as though he were cold, and a constant aura that shrouded him which Fuji initially mistook for steam.

And his star never looked back. Always ahead, never down, and never to the sky. And Fuji couldn't believe how he could live such a way, a life without the sky, a life without flight, without wings, without the sustenance that Fuji took such joy in. A life without living.

Until he saw his dreams.

Tezuka dreamed in shades of blue. It was always himself and himself, staring each other down, one blue and the other bluer, with wings the color of the sky. And then the blue ground would give away from underneath him, and he'd fall into the sky, and then the blue sky would give away, and he'd fall into the ocean.

And he'd drown, and turn blue, bluer, bluest, and his wings would fall, and crumble and turn to blue dust, and with it, carried his blue glasses and his blue arm and his blue leg away, until he was nothing.

No emotions. No fear. And he'd wake from his dreams feeling strangely refreshed.

Fuji felt sick.

* * *

When Fuji was younger, he'd always wanted to catch the wind. And he'd chase it and laugh and chase it some more, his arms outstretched and his grin wide, but the elusive wind would always slip through his fingers, brush against him teasingly, and he'd fly farther, faster, but the wind would always elude him.

Yumiko taught him to twirl his hand with his fingers outstretched, so he could feel the shape of the wind between his fingers for a split second. To experience the wind in his grasp. But for the longest time, the ball of air that would form in his hands would fly away as soon as he let go of it, disappear into what it really was: nothing, and he'd laugh and laugh and laugh until tears came out of his eyes, because he truly couldn't catch the wind, and that he had tried knowing that.

And he had thought, _'Ah, so this is freedom.'_

* * *

One day, he descended down to the Earth, and landed next to his star.

He was pleased when Tezuka stopped playing his tennis to watch him.

* * *

"You have wings," The twelve-year-old Tezuka Kunimitsu pointed out, looking skeptically at the pair of gray wings sprouting from Fuji's back.

He turned his head around; a look of surprise etched over his face and brought his hand around back to caress the feathers. "So I do!"

"You have wings," Tezuka repeated. "You have wings." And then he paused, a thoughtful look on his face, looking too old to be twelve, yet too young to be anything but twelve. "Can you fly?"

Fuji smiled and shrugged. "What do you think?"

Tezuka gave him another once over. He looked from Fuji's wings, gray and feathery, fluttering in the wind, gray feathers floating off, carried away by the breeze, ever changing, then to the tennis racket, solid and ridged, unchanging in his hand, and back again.

"Can you play tennis?"

Fuji's eyes narrowed. There was a lull as brown eyes met open blue.

"Why do you ask?"

Tezuka shrugged.

"I want to be the greatest tennis player in the world." He turned back to the wall, and readied his serve. "And I thought you might have been able to help."

But all Fuji heard was, _"I want to fly. So help me."_

* * *

Tezuka had always been a smart child. Ever since he was small, he had always been at the top of his classes, the teacher's pet, and by the age of ten, had more awards than could be fitted into the glass cabinet that his mother had especially bought for this very purpose. Certificates would cover his wall, to the point that the less significant ones had to be put away in boxes lest his certificates would overlap with one another, a testimony to what others thought of his intelligence.

And because of that astounding intelligence, Tezuka knew that angels were unpredictable and always did unpredictable things.

So really, he wasn't really all that surprised when the next day, their homeroom teacher enthusiastically introduced their new, and very much wing-less, transfer student from France: half-Japanese, half-French, and perhaps, half-something else entirely, and asked them all to 'Yoroshiku' and to make him feel right at home.

"Hello everyone," Fuji said to everyone with a voice which Tezuka remembered distinctly from their previous meeting, cheerful, polite, soft, humble and completely, utterly insincere. "My name is Fuji Shuusuke. It's nice to meet you." And then, he gave a pretty smile, the same, which had been plastered on his face during his earlier meeting with Tezuka, and gave the stoic boy an insanely cheerful wave.

All eyes turned to Tezuka, who managed to look nonplussed.

"Fuji-kun, you may take the empty seat next to Katsuhito-kun," instructed the teacher.

"No, it's alright, sensei," Fuji replied cheerfully. "The seat next to that stoic boy with the messy hair is empty. I'll sit there."

The class tittered. Tezuka raised an eyebrow. Fuji's wings were missing. The teacher gave Fuji a look of warning. Fuji smiled. "Fuji-kun, you will go and sit next to Katsuhito-kun."

"Why?"

Tezuka glared at him.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Why not next to the boy with the glasses? He's glaring."

"I am the teacher, Fuji Shuusuke," The teacher stamped out sternly, "You must do as I say. You will not be punished for this, because of obvious cultural difference, but you must know, talking back to a teacher is unacceptable here in Japan. Go sit next to Katsuhito-kun."

"Talking back at a teacher in any culture is unacceptable," Fuji agreed sagely, gave the teacher a brilliant smile, and did as he was told.

That was the first and last time Fuji sat next to Katsuhito, for the very next day, Tezuka found Fuji lounging in _his_ seat, the borders of _his_ table covered in doodles of little green cacti with wings and _'Hello Kunimitsu'_ in large bubbly letters stretching across the surface in pink marker.

* * *

Tezuka enjoyed eating lunch in the classroom. It was one of the many constants in his life, and it was strangely peaceful and quiet. When the bell rang, many students upped, chittering and laughing with their friends, and made their way to the cafeteria. The ones that stayed in the classroom broke into little groups, chairs and desks scraping across the floor as they maneuvered their desks to face each other so they could gossip and eat and laugh at private jokes and rush to finish whatever homework they had forgotten to do the night before.

No one bothered the stoic boy with the glasses sitting in the corner; book in one hand and chopsticks in another, eating slowly and dignifiedly from a well-made bento. The boy made no sound, and did not disturb anyone else, so no one else disturbed him. It was a mutual thing that everyone in the classroom knew, that if they did not invade Tezuka's privacy, Tezuka would refrain from giving them the famous speech of respecting another's privacy and minding their own business that he would give whenever he felt someone was being too nosy in his business.

It was a good arrangement. It wasn't as though Tezuka wanted to push people away. He simply did not like it when people got too close. Distance was good.

On the second day that Fuji transferred in, several changes were made to Tezuka's life, the first and foremost being his seating arrangement in class, and the second being his lunch time routine.

When lunch time rolled around, there was a sudden rush of noise as people hurried out the door to the cafeteria, shouting and laughing with their friends to hurry it up, and others yelling at their friends to slow down and just how mean they were to leave them behind. Others broke into their little groups, chairs and desks scraping the ground as they hurried to bring desks together to form their little tables. And Tezuka, he got out his bento solemnly, carefully took a book out from his bag, and settled down into his seat again.

And then, Fuji appeared by his side, smile ready on his face and bento ready in his hand.

"It's rather noisy in the classroom, isn't it? Let's go eat on the roof."

Tezuka gave Fuji a look, a "Hn," before turning back to his book.

He noted that Fuji's lips quirked out of the corner of his eyes, and that the smile became less artificial.

"If you say so," came the singsong response, and Fuji turned to make his solitary way to the door. "But I heard it's nice up there. The wind in your hair and the sky above. Sounds nice." And he left, out the door, and presumably to the roof as he said he would.

Tezuka tried to concentrate back to his book, to bury himself in algorithms and laws and theorems that were yet to be proven, but he found that he couldn't. The more he tried, the louder the noise around him got, the sound of laughter and gibberish rising and crescendo-ing until it engulfed him like a fire, and he looked up from his book suddenly, expecting people to be jumping up and down and shouting.

But when he opened his mouth to tell everyone to be quiet, he realized, that everyone had been whispering, and he could hear nary a sound.

The next day, he went on the rooftop, and found that, it was indeed; quiet and peaceful up there. The wind was in his hair, brushing gently the messy brown strands, tossing them playfully, and the sky stretched on above him, endless skies. He had a clear view of the tennis courts below, where several people were practicing with one another, and a clearer view of the birds that soared lazily on thermals above, before disappearing out of sight.

He sat down. Fuji appeared.

"Isn't it nice up here?" Fuji asked teasingly, walking up to him, and without asking for permission, sat down next to him.

Tezuka considered this for a moment, before looking back to his book again, but this time, his "Hn," was truthful and heartfelt. And Fuji laughed, his laughter like chimes in the summer breeze, and they spent the rest of lunch in companionable silence.

* * *

That night, Tezuka dreamed of the sky, of wind chimes and silver bells and stars which, when he reached up to clasp them within his fingers, always moved further and further away until they were nothing but specks in the night sky, but just as beautiful. And he dreamed of gray-blue feathers that floated in the wind lazily and the owner of those feathers, of blue eyes and soft brown hair and a damnable smile, as disposable as Kleenexes.

And he woke up to a constricting feeling to his chest, as though the air was being squeezed out of him, an unpleasant sensation, and a glance at the clock next to his bedside told him that it was three hours before he was supposed to get up.

That day, for the first time in all of the twelve years of Tezuka's life, Tezuka was late to tennis practice.

* * *

It had been one week since Fuji met him on that day in the tennis courts, wings fluttering and he had seen for the first time Fuji's smile that would become his trademark, and Tezuka had only learned three things about Fuji. One, he had wings. Two, he was a natural tease. And three, he always got what he wanted, one way or another. Or perhaps four, Tezuka thought idly, that Fuji never did anything but smile, but somehow, that smile was persuasive enough to get him whatever he wanted in life and more.

And then, he learned the fifth.

It had all started out as a simple, careless error. The section of the fence had always had that hole in it, ever since two years ago, when the school had attempted to install a bench against the fence on the inside of the tennis court, and had cut a hole in the fence to allow supports. They had nearly completed it too, when the tennis team drew up a petition and stopped the project, arguing that it was unsafe for tennis players to have benches against the fence where the seated person was at risk of being beaned by a tennis ball. The bench had been removed, but due to the carelessness of the administration and poor planning, the hole in the fence remained, and since it never did cause any trouble, it had remained there for years, where wear and tear from the weather and careless tennis players had made it half a health hazard and aesthetically unappealing.

Tezuka had brought it up during council meetings, but it had not been a priority. The gaping hole in the fence remained.

They had been running laps. Twenty of them. Forty for Fuji, who had been late to practice with a smile and without a proper excuse. Since Fuji joined the tennis team, he had been late to every practice, every morning and every evening, after school, and no matter how the captain tried to get around it, Fuji remained stubbornly late, and there was nothing anyone could do about it, except assign laps and more laps to the smiling boy. When questioned, he'd smile enigmatically and return to his lap-running.

When his classmates were questioned, Kikumaru Eiji would 'nyah' and tell them, that Fuji always disappeared right after class, and he had always thought that Fuji had been on his way to practice. Inui would mumble something about 20 percent chance that Fuji was doing this on purpose to test authority of the captain, 5 percent he was late because of teacher reprimand-ment, 15 percent chance he was meeting a date, 25 percent chance that he forgot about practice and only came when he remembered, and 15 percent chance that it was unintentional and that Fuji was simply late, period. With ten percent margin of error both ways, of course, because Fuji never did what you expected him to do.

When questioned, Oishi had a massive fit over it, wondering aloud if Fuji was trying to avoid practice because of emotional scarring, and had to be restrained by Eiji or else he would have gone to confront Fuji himself.

No one questioned Tezuka. Tezuka didn't know what he should feel about that.

Tezuka had been running his seventh lap, Fuji right behind him, keeping step with ease, yet never pushing himself to meet his footsteps step for step in a way that irritated him to no end, yet, he wouldn't give Fuji the satisfaction of seeing him break. So he merely doubled his pace, and watched as Fuji doubled his, and felt a small inkling of satisfaction when Fuji's face showed surprise before an uneasy smile.

It had happened all in a split second. They had turned the corner. Tezuka stumbled over a small pebble on the uneven ground, mentally noting the placement of the rock so that the second time round, he wouldn't trip over the same. Fuji wasn't so lucky. He tripped, pitching sideways, and fell against the fence, against, Tezuka noted belatedly, a small inkling of fear pinching at his heart, before brushing it away with a grunt, the hole in the fence. There was a ripping sound, and Fuji was on the ground, clutching his right arm, eyes downcast.

Tezuka was the closest to Fuji. Eiji got there first.

"Fuji, nya, are you alright? Fuji!" Came the exclamation. The bouncy first-year rushed to his friend's side, looking particularly concerned, trying to get a better view of the arm, which Fuji was clutching protectively to his chest, while attempting to get Fuji on his feet.

Oishi got there second, his eyes wide with panic and he fussed and fussed over Fuji, reciting every possible over-the-counter medicine he had in his tennis bag and offering repeatedly to get Fuji some antibiotics, bandages, anything, which Fuji denied with a wane smile. And then, Inui and the rest of the tennis team was there too, when Fuji didn't respond, and started to mutter something about 30 percent chance on purpose for dramatic purposes, 40 percent chance because of that pebble lying in the way of the track, 10 percent chance that Fuji was simply clumsy and ten percent chance margin of error either way because it could be something that he couldn't factor into his calculations.

The third years took this time to slack off, remarking something about wimpy first years and dramatics, and the second years hovered around the back, trying to look concerned, but failing, and ending up being shooed away by the captain, who vainly tried to get people back on their laps with minimal fuss.

He grabbed the first first-year he saw and shooed the rest away. They parted like the red sea.

"Tezuka," he motioned towards him, the first first-year he saw, "Go take Fuji to the infirmary. Fuji, quit the dramatics and start walking. The rest of you, get back to your laps."

Tezuka did as he was told.

The infirmary smelled of antibiotics. Tezuka wrinkled his nose. Fuji smiled. The injured boy sat down on a cot, arm clutched to his chest, and Tezuka moved quietly to prepare antibiotics and bandages, when the other boy stopped him.

"It's alright, Tezuka-kun," he laughed, shaking his head, causing the stoic boy to turn around and regard him with an unreadable look. "I'm fine."

"You are hurt," he pointed out, pointing to the arm Fuji was clutching. Fuji shook his head.

"Come and see."

Tezuka approached Fuji, quirking an eyebrow. Fuji's fingers dug into the skin of his own arm, and his lips were pale, but, Tezuka noted belated, there was no blood. And when Fuji removed his hand from the 'wound', Tezuka could only stare in fascination at the cut skin and the red of the gash beneath, of the small blood vessels and the hint of the nerves beneath the skin, all to perfection as though it were a high-school biology model.

But there was no blood. He could see the veins pumping, but not a single drop of blood escaped the wound.

"You're not bleeding," He pointed out, frowning. His chest felt tight. His throat was constricting. The redness of the muscle beneath the skin seemed surreal. He wanted to throw up.

"Angels don't bleed." Fuji answered, that mysterious smile on his face.

Tezuka learned his fifth fact today: Fuji did not bleed.

They wrapped the wound in bandages, even though it did not bleed, but because Fuji did not want the rest of the school to know of that fact, and for the rest of the day, Tezuka avoided Fuji like the plague.

* * *

A week after the incident, Tezuka took Fuji aside, and gave him the infamous speech of respecting privacy and whatnot.

He explained to the boy, that he did not appreciate being followed around, being mimicked, being mocked, and he did not appreciate his privacy being invaded like that, that it was detrimental to his health if Fuji continued to invade his privacy in such a way, and that it was both inappropriate, time wasting, and could count as stalking. And he mentally added, that Fuji wasn't human, and non-human things and human things should never interact.

Fuji took this all with in-step and with grace. He smiled and smiled, and when Tezuka finished, beamed at him. "Tezuka-kun is so kind to tell me this in such a politically correct way," he commented, smiling, before wandering off in the general direction of the classroom, giving Tezuka a wave. "See you later!"

The stormy clouds outside let loose rain. Tezuka wasn't sad to see him go.

The rest of the day passed like a snail. And so the did the rest of the week. Tezuka found his steps dragging, his concentration waning, and his nights sleepless. It was hard, as though something in his life had changed, and he didn't know what. Fuji stopped following him. He sat next to him in class, but did not doodle in Tezuka's notebook, did not whisper comments in his ears and did not volunteer Tezuka to answer questions on the board. He did not follow Tezuka to the rooftop, he did not speak to Tezuka, merely giving him a wave and a smile, the same he did for every Yuki, Azami and Eiji, and went on with his life, as though nothing had changed between the two of them.

Tezuka found himself envying Fuji, for being able to go through life unaffected by the tides around him.

He himself struggled with it. Something was off. He found himself turning around, expecting to see blue eyes and damnable smiles, only to see empty air and nosy classmates, who turned to meet his eyes with curious glances. He found himself looking to his side during tennis practices, as though expecting a presence next to him, a presence who whispered comments about the weather and about the performance of the players. A constant in Tezuka's life. He saw nothing.

And then, he realized, days without Fuji, were… Imbalanced. Like a tipped scale.

It was as though he were lonely.

Tezuka found Fuji later that day outside in the rain after school, drenched in the rain from the clouds that had formed that afternoon, his brown hair plastered to his face and his eyes twinkling blue, blue as the sky that wasn't. His arms outstretched as though to embrace the rain. Fuji was smiling, laughing, his school bag lying there next to him on the wet ground and his uniform clinging to him, drenched.

And Tezuka had moved to his side, umbrella holding over the two of them. Fuji looked up in surprise, his eyes blue and unguarded, and Tezuka could have sworn that he saw a part of Fuji's soul, before they closed, that smile plastered back on his face, as though to say, 'Hello there, Tezuka. What brings you here?'

Tezuka didn't know, so he shrugged. Fuji found this to be a most satisfying answer, for he smiled again, this time less artificially, and turned back to the rain. They spent the next half an hour in companionable silence, watching the rainfall around them, until Fuji started to shiver from the cold, and Tezuka, being the gentleman, picked up his forgotten school bag and started to walk him home.

"The rain is beautiful, isn't it, Tezuka?" Fuji asked at his doorstep after thanking him for his kindness, to which Tezuka responded, that it was nothing, really.

Tezuka pondered this for a moment, wondering if this was a test of some kind, before deciding to answer truthfully.

"They say that it rains when angels cry," he mused aloud, eyes boring into Fuji. "and that the rain are an angel's tears."

Fuji was silent for a moment, before suddenly, broke into the most genuine smile that Tezuka had ever seen.

"Angels don't cry," he laughed, smiling amiably at Tezuka, before bidding him a good day, and disappearing through the doorway, out of sight.

* * *

A week later, Fuji confronted Yumiko.

"Who said we were human?" Fuji asked.

"We're not," Yumiko answered, jar of oil in the ready. She smoothed the oil into Fuji's wings, carefully kneading with her fingers. It was soothing. "We're not humans."

"Why not?"

"Well," the older woman pondered this for a second, before replying with all patience and seriousness. "What set us apart, is that we don't feel sadness. We don't bleed. We can't cry. There are lots of things that humans can do, that we cannot."

"Then we are worse than humans," Fuji pointed out.

"No, we're not," Yumiko's gaze bore into the back of Fuji's head. "There's something that we can do that human's can't."

"What's that?" He asked curiously.

"You've forgotten already," Yumiko sighed, before closing the jar with a stopper, and placing it upon the table. "We traded humanity for the sky."

'_We can fly.'_

There was a lull, in which Fuji smiled at nothing in particular, and Yumiko smiled at Fuji. Then, Fuji spoke sagely.

"_Wings can only take you so far."_

* * *

They were third years now, and Fuji never left Tezuka's side. The French exchange student had transferred here permanently, the teacher explained to the class patiently, to the delight of the female population, but he would be returning to France after the school year was over. So please, Yoroshiku and help Fuji-kun through his last year of school here in Japan.

No one questioned who was the exchange partner of Fuji, or the odd circumstances of his 'exchange'. They didn't look at the gift horse in the mouth.

Tezuka didn't either. That is, not until Echizen appeared.

Echizen Ryoma breezed in through the open window like a hurricane. He sent the tennis club into an uproar, made friends and enemies and established a fanclub, and irked the administration to no end with his smart-alec remarks and his attitude towards others, yet was a good enough of a player for everyone to have to get used to him in one way or another.

Tezuka found this refreshing, for unlike Fuji, Echizen was unguarded, unveiled, simplistic to the point of complexity, and was so _open_ and _reserved_ at the same time about everything in a way that Fuji would never be able to pull off. And like Fuji, Echizen could fly.

He had questioned Fuji on that subject, asking if Echizen was an angel too, just like Fuji. He had gotten a laugh in response.

"Echizen is no angel, Tezuka," Fuji laughed. But his eyes did not twinkle and his smile looked forced. "He is a human, through and through."

But Tezuka found this fascinating, for Echizen was a human who could fly.

He did not have wings, per se. Anyone could see that. But what Tezuka could see, was an uprising spirit, focused on a single goal, a dream far beyond his reach, and his path of flight dragging along everyone around him for the ride. The boy could not take off into the sky, could not dive and twirling and shed feathers and smile. But he cried, he bled, and he could fly. And that was more than enough for Tezuka. Echizen flew in a way that was different from Fuji, because Echizen was motivated, and that motivation, Tezuka knew, would make him fly as well.

He knew that his shoulder would not last. But he wanted to fly.

Sometimes, he wondered if he stayed with Fuji, merely because the other boy could fly, could do what he could not. That Fuji could have anything in the world, and did have everything in the world, and yet did not care about it. It was strange. For Tezuka knew, that if he had everything in the world, he would keep them close to him, and he would fly. Fuji did not. And now, looking at Echizen, Tezuka knew, that he was right.

He had never felt so fickle in his life.

* * *

Rooftop lunches were not common between the two of them anymore. Tezuka preferred to eat quickly near the tennis courts, on the benches, supervising the younger players as they squished in some lunchtime practices. It was his job as the captain of the tennis team. But it was more of because Echizen preferred to play at lunchtime, to hit the tennis ball against the uneven walls of the clubroom as though it would kill him to stop, and to eat during English class, when the teacher would not mind, or could not mind, seeing as Echizen knew all there was to know about junior high English studies and more.

Fuji preferred the roof, because he could see Tezuka below him, who in turn, watched Echizen pound the tennis ball angrily against the clubhouse and gave him pointers, to which Echizen would reply "Mada mada da ne," and execute the move perfectly. And Fuji could see the sky. Could feel it beckon to him, calling him back. His invisible wings fluttered upwards to meet them.

He spread his arms wide, looking upwards almost reverently, his open-eyed grin terrifying.

It was beautiful.

Tennis was Tezuka's life, he acknowledged, and no matter what he did on the courts, he could never be a part of that life. Similarly, Fuji's life was the sky, and no matter what Tezuka did, he would never be a part of his life, because he could not fly. And Tezuka wouldn't let Fuji in. And Fuji wouldn't let Tezuka in.

It was a mutual thing. And Fuji wouldn't have it any other way.

On one of the rare days, which Tezuka decided to eat on the roof, they would share a companionable silence, broken only by Fuji's questions about tennis and how Echizen was developing, and Tezuka's monosyllable answers. It was peaceful. And on those days, Fuji felt, as though Tezuka was his life. And on those days, the sky never felt so far away.

"Wasabi sushi?" Fuji looked up from his bento, giving Tezuka a curious glance. Tezuka gestured towards his lunch.

Fuji shrugged. "It's not that spicy."

Disbelief flickered across Tezuka's face for a second, before the stoic mask flowed over it again. Fuji smiled.

He volunteered for the Inui juice the next day.

"Angel's can't taste either," he told Tezuka conspiringly, winked, and with a 'cheers', downed the whole jug of Super Aozu Remix Inui Style. The sky was the last thing on his mind.

* * *

Yuuta was an angel who couldn't fly. Tezuka learned this during the match between St. Rudolph Gakuen and Seigaku, from Fuji. Yuuta was an angel who could not fly, did not understand the sky, and was shunned by the other angels because of that. And then, Fuji would approach his brother, all smiles, those beautiful blue eyes hidden behind long eyelashes, and Tezuka would see the look of horror, then disgust written all over the younger's face, before Yuuta backed off, spurning Fuji, and stalked away, fuming.

"Yuuta wants to fly," Fuji explained. His fingers played absently with the hem of his shirt. "Yuuta wants to fly more than I do."

"But he can't," Tezuka nodded, feeling an odd sense of kinship between himself and Yuuta. For he couldn't fly, and he wanted to, and Yuuta couldn't fly and Yuuta wanted to. And both of them had Fuji, who could fly. And Fuji could do nothing about it.

"He can," Fuji corrected a few seconds later, and Tezuka looked up from his reverie in surprise. "He can, but he can't do it himself."

"He needs help?"

Fuji shook his head. "It's not like that. He'll fly, if someone will give him their wings."

Immediately, Tezuka eyes trained on the small of Fuji's back, realizing for the first time the implications of this. Fuji had no motivation. Fuji loved flight; he lived it, reveled in it, yet he loved his brother. He gave his heart to his brother, he gave his everything, yet, the one thing Yuuta truly wanted, he couldn't give. For the first time, he felt an overwhelming sympathy for the angel.

Yuuta also lived flight. He simply lived it in another way. And it must have broken Fuji's heart to see his little brother this way.

"Yuuta wants you to give him your wings?" he asked, his throat choking up. Something was stuck funny in his throat, but he couldn't clear it.

Fuji gave Tezuka a measured look, before sighing.

"Yuuta would never ask for my wings, Tezuka," there was no emotion within that empty, empty tone, and Tezuka had an image of Fuji drifting off further and further away from him, and suddenly, he felt an urge to run after him, to grasp him, to hold him. "And I cannot give them to him, even if I've fallen out of love with the sky."

This caught Tezuka's attention. He gave Fuji a look, to which Fuji responded by smiling wanly.

"I don't love the sky anymore, and Yuuta knows it." He explained softly. "I haven't flown in ages. I don't have the motivation to fly anymore. Flying is no longer a part of my life. I no longer deserve my wings, and Yuuta knows it. He deserves it more than I do. It's damned if I do, damned if I don't."

Tezuka pondered this for a second.

"If you don't give him your wings," he started thoughtfully, realization dawning, "he'll be bitter. But if you do-"

"He'll hate me," Fuji finished bitterly, his face tight and his jaw clenched. "He'll hate me, because it would be a show of pity."

"Flying was your life." Tezuka asked without asking.

"I've found something more." Fuji answered bluntly.

_Yuuta would never, ever ask for my wings. And I can't give them to him._

_There's nothing I can do. Because I am selfish and a coward and because I cannot cry._

_The one thing I can do as an older brother, I've failed to._

* * *

Watching Fuji face Echizen down in the tennis court, Tezuka wasn't sure what to feel. One who could fly as high as he wished to, yet had no motivation to do so, tossing out his life just like that, ever-changing as the wind, the other an arrow with only one destination in mind, unchanging and unwavering in its path of flight. One with a stronger will than the other. One whom he had defeated not a week ago, and the other, he will never truly defeat, merely because he never showed his full potential.

And as they fought, Tezuka thought that he could see wings sprouting from both their backs, playing as though they were flying, their moves fluid and the rain casting a veil of mystery over the two of them, beautiful and enigmatic, yet untouchable. Both had something that Tezuka could never attain.

Echizen was fighting for his future. He was fighting because it was the reason for his existence, and it was the only way he knew how to live. He put everything at stake, and could stand to loose his everything, yet it was the only way he knew _how_.

Tezuka didn't know what Fuji was fighting for.

Fuji had no motivation for tennis, yet he was playing his best, his full potential drawn out by the reckless charge of Echizen. Tezuka could see, that Echizen truly could fly, and when he did, he pulled everyone along with him, whether they wanted to or not, and it was beneficial for the team. Fuji, when he flew, he was beautiful, yet it was dispassionate, and he would only fly his best for himself. Fuji was selfish. Echizen didn't care. Echizen was fighting for his life.

Tezuka wanted to know what Fuji was fighting for.

The irony.

But what was Tezuka fighting for? Victory was the first thing that came to mind, yet it wasn't just about that, now wasn't it? He had been shaken up, the pedestal which he had set Victory upon overturned and trampled carelessly. No, he wanted something different. Yet, he did not have the means to attain it. He was broken, and there really wasn't any way to fix him.

Echizen could inspire, Echizen could pull everyone along with him into flight, but only if they had the means to. Fuji was selfless and beautiful, yet he could not inspire, would not inspire, because it meant nothing to him.

Suddenly, the match ended, cut by the commands of coach, and the magic fizzed out, popped, and disappeared, and there was only two young boys on the court, one human, the other not, drenched to the core. Never seemed more ordinary in their lives.

The truth smacked him hard in the face. And the regulars nearly keeled over in shock, when Tezuka began to laugh.

* * *

When Fuji was younger, Fuji had tried to catch the wind, and he had laughed when he couldn't, because he had known he would have never been able to, yet he had tried anyways, and it had been the funniest thing, really. And he had thought that it was freedom.

When everyone had left the clubhouse after the match between himself and Echizen, Tezuka had cornered him, and his eyes had been open, blue, bluer and bluest, unguarded because he didn't know how to and raw, all wet and shivering.

And Tezuka had whispered into his ear, "Let me into your life."

And had kissed him.

Feeling his fingers wrap through soft brown strands, he compared it to the air, to the insubstantial air, no sustenance, no_feel_, and he felt trapped, covered by the human known as Tezuka, breathing the air known as Tezuka, and feeling the warmth known as Tezuka pressed up against him. He felt claustrophobic, swallowed up in this great expanse, cornered in from all sides, and pressed against the locker doors.

He thought back to his childhood, the air, the wind in his face and the clouds by his side, his wings outstretched behind him, glorious and beautiful.

And he thought to the present, of Tezuka, of his body, of the warmth that he exuded, of the beauty that was Tezuka, his star, the star that never looked, only ahead, yet had seen him anyways.

He knew that he had thought wrong.

_This_ was freedom.

* * *

The day Tezuka's arm broke, Fuji's heart solidified.

He watched as the boy, no, man, he corrected himself, clutched his left arm in agony, there on his knees in the middle of the court his face to the sky, stark pain in his eyes. His scream for the world to hear. He saw the mass of people jumping onto the court, to attempt to dissuade him, to help him up, to steady his hand, to lift him up to the sky where he belonged.

It was then, in the face of the raw pain that overshadowed everything of his own, of anything he could ever have felt in his lifetime, Fuji knew that he had just seen his star fall.

He no longer wanted to see how bright his star could be.

He knew what he must do.

* * *

He met Tezuka in the park at sundown, the sun setting on the horizon, painting the sky with brilliant, white-washed colors that did not quite reach Fuji's eyes. He had smiled his most genuine smile, and had walked up to Tezuka, and wrapped his arms around him, and felt the other man's surprise, before he hugged him back, resting his head on his shoulder blades.

The warmth overwhelmed him. He breathed Tezuka. He tasted Tezuka on the tip of his tongue. He felt Tezuka, wrapped all around him, a constant in his life, the force that had grounded him and had turned his eyes away from the sky, and onto something brighter.

He wanted Tezuka.

He wanted Tezuka in his life.

His wings appeared, gray-blue in all its glory, engulfing both of them in a veil of feathers, floating off into the wind. Tezuka's eyes widened as his fingers came into contact with the soft feathers, beautiful in its own right and powerful, so powerful. And Fuji could feel the want radiating from Tezuka, the guilt, the want, the sadness, the overwhelming pity.

He smiled.

Before Tezuka's eyes, Fuji reached back slowly, giving Tezuka a brilliant smile, peaceful and loving, ripped the base of his wings, and pulled. The right wing came off at the bone, blood spewing from the terrible wound where his wing used to be.

He saw the shock in Tezuka's eyes, the sudden fear flashing through him, but he held onto Tezuka tightly with the other arm, and pulled out his other wing as well, the beautiful wings disjointed from his back, bone clearly visible from the base of the feathers.

The gaping holes in his back spewed blood.

His eyes glazed over. Blue, bluer, bluest, and he gave a laugh of delight, tears trickling from the corners of his eyes, flowing down his beautiful, beautiful face. Tezuka had held onto him tightly, had fixed his eyes on the blood and had fear written all over his face. And then, he visibly calmed himself, tried to stamp down the growing panic and the nagging fear in his heart, and willed himself to be calm.

"Angels don't bleed." He recited. "Angels don't taste. Angels can't cry." His voice choked up, and he couldn't speak anymore.

Fuji smiled.

"Who said I'm an angel?"

And then, he reached around back, clasping a wing in each hand.

Tezuka could do nothing.

"You've dreamt your dream, Tezuka," Fuji whispered, his blood red and his face pale, his body trembling from the pain of a torn limb. "You've dreamt your dream, Tezuka. Now, you can live it."

And then drove the bones into Tezuka's back.

There was no blood. Tezuka drew back from Fuji, his eyes wide with shock, disbelief, anger, a whole myriad of emotions that pleased Fuji to no end, and then, he saw it, the happiness in Tezuka's eyes when he flapped his wings, the shock and disbelief that he could fly.

Fuji collapsed onto his back, lying in a pool of his own blood, his smile genuine. It was cold. So cold. The sky was blue, but not blue, colorless, overcast. Maybe it will rain, he thought absently. Suddenly, Tezuka loomed over him, his face of worry, of tragic, chocked up emotion, yet Tezuka did not cry. Tezuka couldn't cry.

For angels couldn't cry.

'_I will not be able to see you live your dreams. That is my only regret. But it's such a selfish regret. So please, live for me, for all of eternity. And perhaps, someday, in another life, I will be able to see you live your dream. And you'll be able to see mine.'_

**Owari**


End file.
